Holiday Cheer
by ladyspock7
Summary: A Gobblepot romance. Jim invites Oswald to the GCPD Christmas party, hoping to make amends and maybe get something started, but Oswald and Harvey get embroiled in a drinking contest. For the Gobblepot Winter 2018 event on tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

Oswald arrived at O'Malley's Tavern at the appointed time for the GCPD Christmas party just as James had requested, flanked by his six most well-behaved goons, and the noise level in the room dropped as every cop in the place turned their heads.

No one actually went for their guns, but Oswald could sense the strain in the air. He gifted the fine officers of the GCPD with a benign smile as he searched the sea of faces for the one face he wanted to see. Jim invited him, after all.

Then Harvey Bullock, of all people, lumbered out of the crowd and boomed, "Glad you could make it, Cobblepot."

Oswald's eye twitched. As usual, Harvey was too loud, overbearing, and the man's dislike of Oswald was practically a physical sensation, but Harvey stuck out his hand, as much a challenge as a greeting.

Oswald gave himself a mental shrug. He could make nice when the situation warranted, and so he seized the profferred hand. "Happy to be here, Detective."

They locked gazes. Oswald half expected Harvey to try to crush his hand in a boorish show of dominance, but to his mild surprise, Harvey didn't. Merely shook once, firmly, and released him.

A collective sigh passed through the room as people turned back to their drinks. Conversations resumed.

Oswald's goons relaxed and casually took up stations nearby, especially focussing on the path to the nearest exit. Oswald took over a stool at the end of the suddenly deserted bar counter, his top bodyguard Deke settling into a chair at a discrete distance.

The bartender turned on the stereo system, and Celtic music blared out of the loudspeakers around the room.

Oswald gritted his teeth. Well, at least there weren't any bagpipes yet but if they started playing "Danny Boy" he might have to leave.

And, at last, Jim came out of the restroom, having missed the whole damn thing. His eyes found Oswald across the crowded room immediately and he nodded at him.

Oswald's heart gave a little flip but he schooled his features into nonchalance and raised his glass in greeting. Jim was hemmed in by the mass of police officers who had migrated to the back end of the tavern.

Oswald's side of the place was almost empty, which suited him just fine as he didn't particularly care to be surrounded by inebriated cops.

Jim edged through the throng, mouthing endless 'excuse me's', no doubt.

Oswald suppressed a smile. Crowds always parted for Oswald, he never had to say 'excuse me' to every lackey, though Jim would no doubt object to comparing fine hardworking police officers to Oswald's underlings.

Oswald made a note to mention it, if only to see that adorable scowl of annoyance on Jim's face. He needed to have _some_ fun, and needling Jim was easy entertainment. It was a party, after all.

An extremely drunk officer stumbled into Jim's path, gesturing excitedly, but Oswald couldn't hear what he had to say that was so important, as the music was too loud.

The bartender set a pint of pale beer in front of him. "On the house," the man said. "But there's a two-drink limit."

Oswald smiled thinly. "Of course there is." The GCPD bean-counters in action again, unable to loosen the purse strings even now, after all the upheaval and sacrifice of its officers. If Oswald ever tried to skimp on his underlings this way he'd soon have riots.

To pass the time, Oswald ran his gaze over the decor of O'Malley's Tavern, appraising the wood-paneled walls and touches of Old World charm, including the wooden sign from the original establishment in Ireland, which had burned down. Scorch marks were visible on the sign's lower right hand corner.

The tavern was bedecked in the trappings of the Christmas season, garlands and colored lights strung along the tops of the walls, and wreaths over every window and door, as the Iceberg Lounge was decorated.

Though he himself didn't celebrate Christmas it was expected by the clientele, and so every year he ordered festive decor to be displayed, though on a more modest, more tasteful scale. He went to the bother of procuring garlands of fir or cedar, despite the expense and the needles that inevitably dropped on the carpet as they slowly withered. They gave off such a pleasant scent, and were far better than the tackier plastic greenery most establishments used year after year.

Such as this tavern. A policemen's bar, usually avoided by such as himself. He had his territory, the cops had theirs, and normally he wouldn't traipse in here unless on official business. But because of the recent threat against the city- an unusually aggressive faction of a Chicago gang trying to muscle its way into Gotham- and because the Penguin had once again been compelled to intervene, Jim had invited him to a sort of ad hoc celebratory Christmas party hosted by the GCPD.

And, in an act of temporary insanity, Oswald accepted.

What in the world ever possessed him? Was it the look in Jim's eye, the warm touch of Jim's hand on his forearm? As if he actually wanted Oswald to be there. And so, here he was, cooling his heels and waiting for Jim to pay attention to him.

He checked on Jim's progress.

Jim hadn't made any leeway through the crowd at all, and was still engaged in conversation with the drunken officer who was gesticulating wildly.

Oswald tapped his fingers on the cold glass and shifted his weight, his mild amusement at Jim's discomfort evaporating. Six minutes, and it already felt like he'd been here too long. Thirty minutes, maybe forty-five total, that should be long enough for the sake of politeness, then he'd take his leave.

For God's sake, how long before Jim extracted himself and came to greet him? Jim was the only reason he bothered coming to this shabby party and the man didn't even have the courtesy to...

He shook his head, irritated at himself. So Jim had gotten waylaid, what of it? Oswald ought to be a little more understanding.

Except Oswald was always tasked with being understanding. Always having to make the effort, to offer the deals, to extend help, help that was grudgingly accepted, if at all. Jim never even came to ask for information anymore.

It was the damnable hope that continued to spring in his heart whenever Jim payed him even the slightest bit of attention. Though Oswald would settle for the man's anger and frustration, and usually did, something within always softened whenever Jim dropped him a few crumbs.

He was such an idiot. Maybe he should just go, politeness be damned. Not that Jim would even notice, he thought sourly. He looked around the room, taking note of those officers secretly on his payroll, who were studiously, and properly, ignoring him, and caught sight of Jim going out the back door.

He realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it. Feeling heat shoot through his cheeks, he held onto the edge of the bar with his gloved hands and struggled to compose himself.

Jim _left._ He just...left, without even talking to him. How rude. How insulting! The sheer audacity, the unmitigated...

Oswald didn't even have words. To be dismissed so casually. Who the fuck did Jim think he was dealing with, was the Penguin some nobody? Why did Jim even invite him?

Some sop to Jim's conscience, after all, apparently, a meaningless show of goodwill that meant nothing, a crumb tossed in Oswald's path, and goddam it all, Oswald snapped it up greedily enough, hadn't he? So pleased that Jim had thought to actually include him in something, even this pathetic excuse of a party.

To his alarm, Oswald felt tears prick at his eyes. He took care to dab at the corners of his eyes swiftly so no one would notice.

Damn it, when would it stop hurting? If only he could dismiss Jim from his thoughts as easily as Jim, apparently, could dismiss Oswald.

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and he started, whirling to see the red, grinning face of Harvey Bullock, exuding cheer and alcohol fumes in equal measure. "The man of the hour. How's it hangin'?"

Oswald's lip curled. He was in no mood to bandy words with the likes of Bullock. He wanted to get out of there, get back home, and crawl into a bottle of his most expensive scotch as soon as humanly possible. "Lovely party," he said, sliding off the stool and straightening his silk jacket. "Clearly the GCPD has spared no expense. Now if you'll excuse me..."

He nodded at the bodyguards, who stood and walked over to him. Deke picked up Oswald's coat and held it open so Oswald could slip his arms into the sleeves.

"It barely got started," Harvey said, frowning. "What's the rush?"

Oswald buttoned up. "I've partaken of enough holiday cheer, at least as much as the GCPD can afford."

"You sayin' we're cheap?"

"Why no, not at all. Open bar, very generous. As long as all one wants is weak beer and stays under the limit." He adjusted his gloves and collected his cane. "I bid you good evening, detective. Give my regards..."

He stopped, voice faltering. He'd been about to say 'Give my regards to Jim' but a lump got in the way. He coughed to cover his discomfort and tucked his scarf under his chin.

"Don't be like that," Harvey said. "Stick around a little while."

"Thank you, but no." Oswald buttoned his coat, irritation spiking at Harvey's supposed concern.

"Come on, it's the holidays," Harvey said, seizing his shoulder. "How 'bout you..."

Oswald spun, gripping his cane, half a breath away from drawing his knife on this buffoon. Through the red tide flooding his vision, he maintained enough sense of self-preservation to keep the knife sheathed in a roomful of cops. Barely.

Because he'd had it. Had enough of Bullock manhandling him, of getting snubbed by Jim. If Bullock touched him one more time...

His goons loomed, ready to intervene. The knowledge that they'd fling Bullock into the wall on Oswald's word calmed him a bit.

Harvey took a step back, holding up his hands. "Whoa, take it easy!"

"I will not, when you obviously are trying to keep me from leaving."

Harvey licked his lips and his eyes darted to the side, chagrin souring his features.

Because I'm right, Oswald thought with a grim, weary satisfaction. Of course. Always a catch, always a set-up, it never failed.

"I am going," Oswald said, voice as cold as he could make it, and turned on his heel.

"All right, fine, be that way," Bullock snapped. "I don't give a shit. Don't know why the fuck he even bothers, just went to get your present."

That was a bizarre enough statement to give Oswald pause in his act of sweeping out of the room.

He regarded the detective with a critical eye. The man certainly wasn't above using subterfuge to temporarily gain trust, but he was also crude and unsubtle, and Oswald knew his body language well enough to know he probably wasn't making something up on the fly. Harvey side-eyed him, hunched over the bar, without any of his usual blustering dominance.

"Jim went to fetch me a present," Oswald repeated in a flat voice. "What would that be? A straightjacket? Special monogrammed handcuffs?"

Bullock snorted. "You think we lured you here to take you down? What's keepin' us from going to your place with a warrant?"

"My private army."

Bullock tightened his lips into a thin line as this home truth about the limitations of the GCPD struck him amidships. "Look, Jim ran out to his car, he sent me a text, wanted me to keep you company 'til he got back."

Harvey's cell phone buzzed, and he plucked it out of his pocket, and tsk-ed at the message. "Great. Now he says he forgot it at home. You know what, Cobblepot? Stay or go, I don't give a shit."

Oswald adjusted his grip on his cane and ran a narrow-eyed gaze around the tavern again. It certainly didn't look like the other cops were making any covert maneuvers to surround him, although a few people had looked around at the disturbance when Oswald shoved Harvey's hand away. But there was no real tension in the air as might be expected from people about to spring a trap, and he had a nose for that sort of thing.

Still, he hadn't survived this long by being a fucking idiot (And it only took being stabbed in the back about a hundred and fifty times, he thought wryly), so he ordered his thugs to keep the path to the exit clear, and settled at a table with his back to the wall.

Harvey took over Oswald's vacated stool at the end of the bar. "Take your coat off and stay a while."

"No need to keep an eye on me, I assure you," Oswald said, unbuttoning his coat and removing the scarf to relieve some of the heat. He kept the coat on, however. "Sheer morbid curiosity compels me to delay my departure, if nothing else. Unless the good captain has given you orders...?" The question hung in the air.

"You got a mind like a corkscrew." Harvey shook his head. "I told you, he'll be right back. Prolly like twenty-five, thirty minutes. Just have a drink or something. Fucking relax."

He poured a shot out of a whiskey bottle sitting at his elbow, and walked it over to Oswald's table, setting it down with a clunk.

Oswald leaned away from it ever so slightly. "I am overwhelmed by your generosity."

"You too good for Wild Turkey?"

"I'm more concerned with how many people might have taken swigs straight from that bottle. I'm fairly certain it's been sitting there since before my arrival."

"It's booze. It's sort of..." Harvey waved a hand in a circle. "Self-sterilizing. Geoffery bought it, said anybody could have some."

"Could be more saliva than whiskey by now," Oswald said.

Harvey, who had been about to knock back his own shot, paused and glared at the glass. "God damn it, Penguin," he said petulantly. "Now you got me thinkin' about it."

Harvey's whining amused Oswald and he graciously ordered another bottle of Wild Turkey. The bartender poured shots for both of them.

He picked up the shot glass simply for something to do, but soon set it down again. What sort of present could Jim possibly be giving him? And why? Was guilt spurring Jim to make some kind of gesture?

Curiosity had kept him here, but it was quickly turning into indignation. And something like dread caused a lump to settle in his chest. He could handle the man's rages, indeed, it kept him warm on cold nights, but this supposed act of kindness was throwing him off balance. Who the hell did Jim think he was?

Well, he probably shouldn't get too excited. It was probably a mass-produced wooden plaque with 'Thank You for Your Service' printed on it in brass.

Oswald felt eyes on him and realized that Harvey was watching him fidget. He forced his hands into stillness on the head of his cane.

"You're not drinking?" Harvey said.

Oswald made a noncomittal humming sound that could mean anything.

Harvey said, "Yeah, I guess you gotta watch how much you take in, little guy like you."

Oswald stiffened. "I beg your pardon."

Harvey grinned wide, smug bastard. "Two drinks max, I'm thinking, enough to get you soused."

Oswald let out an incredulous chuckle. "I can drink you under the table any day."

"Ha! Whaddya weigh, one forty, one forty-five?"

"My weight is no business of yours."

Harvey patted his own bulging stomach with pride. "I got lots more room here. More'n you."

Oswald raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure, later, what possessed him in that moment. Perhaps because he was tired of waiting around for Jim, he was planning on getting seriously drunk at some point anyway, and Bullock pissed him off.

He leaned forward and laced his fingers together, giving Bullock a smile with razors in it. "Willing to put your money where your mouth is?"

"What?" Harvey's brow wrinkled. "You serious?" He shook his head. "You're gonna regret it, Penguin." He stood up, sticking his thumbs in his belt. "Twenty bucks says I can drink more shots than you. Whiskey."

Oswald adopted a look of fake concern. "Oh, but I wouldn't want to leave you destitute. Make it ten."

Bullock's lip curled. "Fifty. Unless you wanna back out."

Oswald spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture. "I'm ready when you are. Let's begin. But not this rotgut. Barkeep!" Imperiously he raised his hand to get the bartender's attention. "What's top shelf in this rathole?"

Harvey excused himself for a run to the bathroom, where he typed out a quick text. _Hurry the fuck up, Romeo._

 _I am hurrying! Road icy._

 _He almost left. Why'd you sneak out? Should've said hi._

 _I didn't sneak out, too many people in the way and I had to go get the stuff._

 _Just get back._

 _You tell him anything?_

Harvey rolled his eyes. Why Jim was so taken with Oswald he would never understand, but Harvey was nothing if not a good wingman. Besides, if they hit it off, maybe Jim could rein in the little rat once in a while. _I HAD to, stupid, or he would've took off._

 _Fuck. Okay. Can you keep him company?_

 _No problem. Soften him up for ya._

 _The hell does that mean?_

Harvey grinned wolfishly, could almost feel Jim's suspicious bewilderment through the phone. _Don't worry, buddy, I got it covered._ He put the phone away before Jim could start nagging at him and went out to drink Cobblepot under the table.


	2. Chapter 2

A table in the middle of the room was commandeered, and Oswald took a seat. News of the contest travelled quickly, mainly because of Harvey, who was already loudly proclaiming victory.

Oswald snorted. The braggart.

Soon enough, Oswald found himself surrounded by curious onlookers, and Oswald's top henchman Deke shouldered his way past them to stand at Oswald's elbow, to keep a better eye on his boss.

When the bartender brought over the bottle of Laguvilin, Deke made a cursory examination of the shotglasses and bottle, and while Oswald appreciated how seriously he took his job, he wasn't unduly worried about tampering. The seal was unbroken, and Bullock would be drinking out of the same bottle, after all.

A susurration of muttering on the edge of Oswald's hearing indicated that a number of bets were being made.

A few officers were now mingling with the henchmen, and it sounded like some of them were betting, too. Interesting.

Deke didn't look too pleased about that and shifted his weight as if he were about to go have a word with his underlings, but Oswald caught his eye, and with a minute shake of his head showed that he wasn't perturbed by this lapse in professionalism, to let it pass.

In fact, since it looked like they'd be there for a while...

"Tell the bartender to run a tab for our men," Oswald told him. "My treat. Non-alcoholic beverages, mind you." They were on duty, after all, and Oswald had promised to give them their own holiday party on another night.

Deke nodded, and shouldered his way back out to pass the word along.

Oswald's lip twitched with amusement. It sounded to him as if the henchmen were betting for him, after all, and against Bullock.

It had the feel of 'us against the cops' vibe, and who was he to squelch their natural animosity? Fairly harmless. Though he gave a passing thought to how they would bet if it wasn't for the fact of their usual hostility towards the law, he didn't dwell on it.

Harper swung the Laguvilin up over her head to show the crowd, raising a small cheer from the watchers, and a barely restrained grimace from Oswald.

"Second thoughts, Cobblepot?" Harvey said, baring his teeth in approximation of a smile, claiming a chair on the opposite side of the table.

"That bottle happens to be expensive," Oswald said. "She looks like she's tipped a few back already."

Harvey snorted, but before he could respond, Harper smacked the bottle on the table, fortunately without breaking it, and, apparently having made herself the referee, broke the seal and began pouring.

"Drink at the same time," she ordered, raising her voice to carry. "No food, no water. You can use the bathroom, but no puking. First guy who pukes, loses. First guy who passes out, loses."

She stood back with a grin and waved her hands. "Gentlemen, you may begin."

The first few rounds, along with some well-placed jabs at Harvey, which the other man sneeringly reciprocated (although not nearly as cleverly, in his opinion), went quite well, if he did say so himself.

Despite the zest of the competition, and Oswald was very much looking forward to at last putting Bullock in his place, he wasn't quite enjoying it as much as he thought he would.

Instead of the pleasant numbness that imbibing alcohol usually induced in him, which dulled pains both emotional and physical, the drinks seemed instead to be highlighting one particular ache, bringing it too close to the surface.

 _Oh no you don't,_ he scolded himself. _Not gonna sit here getting maudlin over James Gordon, crying in your beer, or whiskey, as the case happened to be._

 _I mean, just when I'm finally starting to achieve some kind of balance, some equilibrium, thinking maybe we can actually be civil, work together without snarling and snapping and getting on each others' last nerve._

Case in point, they'd worked together remarkably well, as they always somehow managed to do, and vanquished the recent threat to Gotham.

He was a fool to think it went beyond that. But fool he was, because here he thought they could relax for a while, share a convivial chat and a few drinks, be sociable for once.

And Jim ditches him, as if he were some lackey! And like a damn fool Oswald was actually hurt by this. Jim had once again roped Oswald into helping him, and then offered the bare minimum of gratitude, and gone on his merry way, leaving him cooling his heels in this dive bar.

Not that Oswald wouldn't have done everything in his power to protect their fair city, but that wasn't the point.

Oswald realized he was even angrier at himself than at Jim, damn him anyway. Well, Jim wasn't going to get under his skin anymore. He didn't know why in the hell he let Bullock talk him into waiting around for some farcical gift-giving.

Harper was pouring again. "Ready? Go," she shouted.

He and Harvey seized their respective shotglasses, and drank.

Oswald hissed out a breath between his teeth, feeling the golden burn spread through his chest.

Harvey exhaled gustily and slammed his glass back on the table. Just like he'd done every single time.

Oswald glared at him. "Must you be _so_ loud. _All_ the time."

"Only way to be," Harvey said, with cheerful maliciousness. He rapped his knuckles on the table. "C'mon Harper. Again!"

Oswald uncurled his hands to flatten them on the table, determined not to let Bullock get under his skin, either.

I can outlast you, Oswald thought coldly. Bullock was tough but Oswald had waded through oceans of pain, and he could endure anything. Even Jim's indifference.

Oswald balled up that particular ache and pushed it down, to be dealt with later.

* * *

Jim edged his car into one of the last parking spaces on the street and, while normally one for springing into action, his usual predisposition had momentarily abandoned him, leaving him curiously reluctant to go back in there and interrupt whatever activity Harvey had embroiled Oswald in, which almost certainly involved a ridiculous amount of booze.

Enough time had passed for anyone to get roaring drunk, Oswald certainly. How was Jim supposed to mend fences if Oswald was soaked to the gills?

And how, exactly, he was going to give the gifts to Oswald? He couldn't simply hand over the bag in front of Gotham's entire police force. Awkward, and hardly the sort of thing to put Oswald at ease.

He scrubbed a hand tiredly through his hair. He'd thought it would be easier, less weighted if they met in a public place, but instead, it was exactly the opposite.

He checked his phone one last time, but Harvey hadn't responded to his last text, in which Jim demanded to know what the hell was going on.

He'd just wanted Harvey to keep Oswald company until he got back, so Oswald wouldn't feel ignored, was that too much to ask?

He dithered over whether or not to bring the bag in, and at last decided to leave it on the front seat, thinking that maybe he could ask Oswald to come out to the car. Which sounded pretty stupid.

He sighed and stepped out onto the curb. This had not been well planned.

* * *

Detective Harper poured again. He and Harvey picked up the shots and drank them. And if both of them did so with rather more care than at the start of the procedings, well, Oswald was more than holding his own.

Both of them were consciously dallying, just a little, to play it safe. Oswald knew how much he could handle, that he could go the distance if he spaced the drinks out. Too many too fast would cause him to crash unexpectedly.

Harvey clutched at his hat to keep it from falling off, then changed his mind and slapped it on the table.

Oswald raised an eyebrow in distaste. As usual, it was his thankless duty to be the upholder of manners and decency. "It's considered rude to leave your hat on the table. Or to wear it _at_ table, for that matter."

"Oh, excuse me very much, I'm sure," Bullock sneered. "So what's proper etiquette for stabbing somebody at the table?"

Silence fell like a lead weight. The closest onlookers shuffled their feet and glanced at each other while Harvey jutted out his jaw with a mean little smile. Behind Oswald, Deke shifted, as if preparing to leap in if the boss did something foolish.

It was laughable, really. Did they think the Penguin was so lacking in control as to give an actual demonstration?

He turned the full force of his razor-sharp grin on Bullock. "Not until after the fish course."

Bullock stared at him for a beat, then roared with laughter and smacked the table again, making the half-empty bottle and glasses jump. "You would know, amirite? Huh? Huh? Always I said you was a gennelman. Ain't that what I always say, Jim?"

"No, Harvey, I can't say you have," Jim said.

Oswald blinked up at him owlishly, as the familiar, gruff voice piercing the armor he'd so painstakingly erected.

He'd been so focused on the drinking and exchanging jibes with Bullock that somehow he'd forgotten Jim was coming back.

Heart pounding, he scrambled to collect his wits, and forcibly stopped the foolish grin he could feel spreading over his face. He needed to play it cool. Very important.

"Well, well, well, well, well," he said. He paused. "Well," he added, one more time for good measure. "If it isn't Jim Gordon and his constant companion, the disapproving frown."

Because of course Jim was frowning. Another trait of which Oswald could always be assured, Jim's moralistic high ground, barely masked even at the best of times.

Somewhat to Oswald's surprise, Jim looked taken aback.

"I'm not disapproving," Jim protested, and he attempted to smooth his features into something less stern, though his jaw tightened as he turned his gaze on Harvey. "Not entirely."

"And empty handed as well, I see." Oswald's eyes raked over Jim with a considerable amount of disapproval himself, and shrugged, managing to demonstrate in that one gesture that it was to be expected that Jim would fall short. So much for the 'gift,' whatever it was.

Jim cleared his throat and leaned one hand on the back of Oswald's chair. Close enough for Oswald to feel the heat of his body. "Oswald, could I have a word? Alone?"

"Actually, James, I happen to be occupied at the moment. You know how it is. Extremely busy." Oswald turned back to table. See how Jim liked to be kept waiting.

Harper shoved back through the crowd, having procurred another drink for herself, and industriously poured out two more shots. "Hey, Cap'n," she said cheerfully. "Just in time. Wanna see who comes out on top? My money's on Penguin."

Harvey's jaw dropped comically. "You bet _against_ me? Traitor," Harvey snarled. "Bettin' on the oppos...the oppossisiss...the other side."

"I'll be cryin' all the way to the bank," Harper said, her expression turning smug.

"You bet on me?" Oswald was unable to hide his surprise. "That I would win?"

"Hell, yeah," she said. "You seen those eating contests? It's always some skinny guy from Japan that wins."

"Yeah, but this's a drinking contest, and he ain't from Japan," Harvey snapped.

"Waaah," Harper twisted her face into a caricature of sorrow. "I'm not the only cop who did."

"I shall prove worthy of your investment, of that you can have no doubt." Oswald said, inexplicably pleased by this unexpected show of support and he beamed widely at the detective.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Penguin," Harper said, inclining her head.

"You're most welcome, Detective Harper," Oswald responded, also dipping his head in a little bow.

In a sudden burst of goodwill, he snatched up the shotglass and lifted it in a toast. "To Harper!" Oswald shouted, and drank the contents.

"Hey!" Harvey slammed his hand on the table. "S'posed be at the same time, dammit!" He threw back his shot.

Oswald shut his eyes against the burn of the liquor, and he opened them again to see Jim standing there awkwardly as if he didn't know what to do with himself.

A pang of remorse tugged at Oswald, despite his efforts to remind himself that he was angry at Jim. Wasn't that always the way? He was unable to maintain a really good bout of rage going at Jim for long.

Jim looked so lost that Oswald grew magnanimous, and he reached out.

"Jim," he said, motioning with his hand. "Sit with us. Drink. You must sit with us. Sit, sit, sit," he urged, beckoning impatiently. "Once I have proceeded to outdrink this upstanding member of Gotham's finest, I shall be all yours."

The unintended double entendre of his comment caused merriment to bubble in his chest and he couldn't keep back an undignified burst of laughter, so much so that he had to lay his head on his crossed arms on the table.

"Oh, fer fucksake," Harvey said disgustedly. "Get a hold a yerself."

With some effort Oswald managed to sit up and wipe his eyes, while Jim sighed and pulled over a chair.

* * *

After a brief visit to the restroom, Oswald returned to find Jim having a heated, although muted, conversation with Harvey.

As he approached he noted the irritated set of Jim's jaw, and the amused gleam in Harvey's eye, completely unrepentant about whatever Jim was scolding him about.

The conversation stopped abruptly as Oswald dragged his chair back and resumed his seat.

"Jim here wants us to cut our contest short," Harvey said, jerking a thumb in Jim's direction. "He wants to _talk_ with you."

Oswald couldn't fathom the meaning of Bullock's lascivious smile, or the dark scowl Jim levelled at Harvey, or why Harper had choked back a snort of laughter and was watching the exchange with such rapt glee.

"Cut it short?" He scoffed. Whatever nonsense they were snickering about, must be some in-joke, he wasn't about to let Jim draw him off course, and he drew himself up in righteous indignation. "Your little chat will have to wait, Captain. For there is simply far too much at stake here, indeed, it is has grown to such significance that the consequences of our competition are far greater than all of us. The fates of a great many wagers hang in the balance, and I shall not abandon my post!"

He'd half risen to his feet again during the impromptu speech and pounded his fist on the table to mark its end, and the audience cheered their approval and raised their glasses.

Harvey stood ponderously, hitched up his belt and took his time running his gaze over the crowd. He took a deep breath, paused, then said, "What he said."

A smattering of laughter greeted this short pronouncement, and Harvey resumed his seat.

Jim at last seemed resigned to sitting it out, morosely nursing a beer and waiting for the end.

* * *

Oswald tugged at his collar in a futile bid to let off some excess heat, until he finally gave in to temptation and loosened his tie. A serious breach of the standards to which he adhered, but it was seriously fucking hot in there, he was about to burn up, too many people crowding around. Honestly, didn't these fine officers care about enforcing the maximum capacity of a room?

Oswald could not remember how many rounds had come and gone. How many drinks there'd been. Which was slightly worrying. Good memory and all that, usually. Hell, a superb fucking memory, if he did say so himself. To keep all the...the watchmacallems straight.

Time lost all meaning, while gravity seemed to have increased. Oswald was careful not to lean over too far one way or the other.

With a certain amount of care, as she, too, had consumed a fair number of drinks, Harper upended the bottle and refilled the shotglasses. Again. Oh God, not again.

"Order up," she thundered, then closed her eyes and sat down heavily in the chair opposite Jim, propping her elbow on the table to lean her head on her hand.

His stomach gurgled gently, disturbing his equilibrium.

Everything. Would be fine. He had to remember that. As long as he sat very still and moved very carefully. Alcohol poisoning might well be on the agenda, but by God he was going to win.

Important thing was. The important thing. Was to keep going.

They were now partway through a second bottle of high-priced whiskey, and Oswald was beginning to wish he had taken the opportunity to bow out when Jim had suggested having a word.

Oh, important business, Jim? Why, certainly, sorry ladies and gents, must away. Urgent consultation with your good captain, au revoir Bullock. At this point he would have accepted Jim arresting him on some obscure charge and throwing him in a cell. With a bed.

The fact that Harvey had his head pillowed on his arms and was moaning "Ohhhh myyyy gawwwwd," in a steady chant, was small consolation.

Harper squinted at Oswald, shifted her gaze to Harvey, and back again. "The hell you guys waitin' for?" she said irritably.

Oswald eyed the glass in front of him with loathing, but there was nothing for it. With extreme care Oswald took hold of the glass. Steeling himself, he picked it up. Drank. Burning liquor washing through his stomach, he clunked glass back on the table.

A hush fell over the watchers. He felt the eyes of the crowd on him.

Oswald clenched his teeth against the liquor joining the raging chorus in his head, in his veins. He swayed, then placed one hand on the edge of the table and delicately righted himself.

The watchers sighed.

Breathing through his nose, he looked steadily at Harvey, who was slowly lifting his head, squinting as if against some inner pain.

"Well?" Oswald said. He would have arched an eyebrow but he couldn't quite feel his face anymore. "You're falling behind again, detective."

Harvey's hands braced against the table as he eyed the brimming glass in front of him.

Then looked away, shaking his head. "'M done," he mumbled. He lurched to his feet and staggered in the direction of the restrooms, amid a chorus of cheers from the ones with winning bets and groans of disappointment from the losers.

Oswald pushed up from the table with a shout of triumph. "Ha! I win! Not so big now, Bullock!" he shouted at the man's retreating back, then sat down heavily.

Jim's frowning face swam into his vision. "About time," Jim grumbled. "I better get him a cab. Could you please just sit tight for a minute? As a favor."

Oswald struggled to focus. He looked up at Jim, then realized Jim was talking to him. Him, Oswald.

Favor. Yes. He could do that. Easy enough. Very important, favors.

He waved his hand around in a casual way, to show how graciously he could grant this trivial favor, and when he looked up again Jim had disappeared into the crowd.

Harper was being urged to her feet by her partner, talking about sharing an Uber, and soon they staggered off, with Harper pausing long enough to give Oswald a hearty clap on the shoulder that nearly jostled him off his seat, while she loudly congratulated him and herself for winning and being such an awesome facilitator before her partner blessedly hauled her away.

Oswald sat while the room spun gently around him, and people wandered off to find other entertainment or stagger home.

He concentrated on not slipping off the chair. This was a good chair. Good seat, keeping him off whatever muck might be strewn about this pigsty of a cop dive bar, with all its cops. Ha! Pigsty! Appropriately named in his opinion. Catch him in a place like this, not likely.

Except he was in a place like this, awaiting Jim. Jim's beck and call. Always waiting for Jim and his stupid demands.

His lip curled. Waiting for Jim. Again.

The Penguin was no man's lackey. He dragged a hand down his face in an attempt to force his brain to function properly.

Of course, Jim had asked for a favor. To wait a minute.

"That's 'bout a minute," he mumbled, then began to lever himself to his feet.

"All right, boss?" a deep rumble at Oswald's shoulder made him look up. And up.

Deke stared back impassively. "I called the car. It's right outside."

"To go," Oswald said with lips that had gone numb. "Ready. To go." He scowled as he craned his neck again. "And quit being so damn tall."

Deke gripped Oswald's elbow and hoisted him to his feet. Normally Oswald would have been offended at this overly familiar behavior, but Deke committed the action discretely, and removed his hand quickly once Oswald was upright.

He must remember to give him a bonus, for going above and beyond the call of duty. "Clear the way, then."

Mindful of his steps, unbearably grateful for his cane, he approached the exit, Deke hovering. Or was it hulking? The man was good at either activity.

Another goon, Rocko, held the door open as Oswald reached it, which is when Jim came back in, apparently having successfully poured Harvey into a cab.

"Get out of the way," Rocko said, and seized Jim's arm.

The spike of anger that surged through Oswald surprised even him, as he surged forward to smack the brute sharply across the knuckles. Rocko jerked back with a yelp.

"Hands off!" Oswald shouted, brandishing his cane. "Next one to lay a hand on Jim will lose that hand!"

The words came out in a rush that quite took his breath away, and the world began a slow rotation. Oswald staggered.

And then Jim was there, holding him up. Oswald sagged against Jim's chest and clung to the man's suit jacket, the plastic bag on Jim's arm swinging into him. Deke cursing out Rocko for his stupidity and Rocko's stammered apologies barely registered.

"'S'all right," Jim said, clearly embarrassed. "No harm done."

Oswald closed his eyes as that rumble of a voice travelled through him, producing entirely new sensations, making him giddy.

With his palm flat against his chest and his nose almost touching Jim's collar, Oswald didn't want to move. Jim was so warm and sturdy. Oswald wanted very much to lay his head on Jim's chest and press him close.

This was the closest he was ever going to get to having Jim hold him, this entirely too dutiful and conscientious touch, Jim merely doing his duty, keeping Oswald from crashing to the ground.

The thought was so sad he could have cried.

He inhaled the scent of laundry detergent and the barest hint of aftershave. His fingers twitched. In another moment, he'd be nuzzling into Jim's neck and running his palms all over that muscled torso.

Flushed, Oswald straightened quickly, turning away.

Jim kept an arm around his waist, however, stopping Oswald from pulling away completely.

Oswald rubbed his eyes. He was far too drunk to untangle all the emotions raging through him, horrified at how close he'd come to blatantly fondling Jim in public, breaching the boundaries of decency, violating Jim's trust.

Clearly Jim didn't realize Oswald's near lapse, thank goodness, or surely he would have pushed him away. As it was, Jim's arm was still wrapped securely around his waist.

"Where's the car?" Jim asked, directing the question at Deke.

Oswald bit his lip as that rumble vibrated through him again. He really ought to quit leaning on Jim, but he was too weak willed, and he didn't want to, unable to muster the fortitude to do so, and besides, Jim was already walking him across the icy sidewalk to where one of the henchmen held the car door open.

Oswald crawled in and sat heavily in the seat. Jim was leaning halfway in. "You all right?" he asked, forehead creased from his raised eyebrows as he regarded Oswald.

Oswald felt chilled and strangely bereft at the lack of contact, but managed a grunt that was sort of an affirmative, and Jim nodded, began to back out.

Oswald grabbed his wrist. "Gotta see me home safe. Your duty as an officer of the law," he added.

Inwardly he cringed at the bare yearning in his voice, and the ridiculous nature of the demand, as if Oswald didn't already have a large enough escort. But letting Jim slip away into the night was suddenly unbearable.

Jim blinked. "Uh. Yeah. Sure." He threw a cautious look at Deke, who waved a hand at him to show he'd heard the boss's injunction, then clambered into the car, putting the bulky shopping bag between their feet.

It must be wishful thinking, Oswald thought as slumber took him and his head dropped onto Jim's shoulder, hearing that bright note in Jim's voice. Almost as if Jim were happy to be going along with him.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Morning After

The next morning when Jim returned to consciousness, he took a few moments to wonder why he wasn't in bed, and then another few moments to wonder why his couch was so comfortable.

Oh. Because it wasn't his old lumpy couch. It was Oswald's.

He rubbed his eyes and pushed aside his coat which he'd been using as a blanket, and sat up, taking in the quietly stylish furniture, dimly lit by the faint daylight filtering in from the curtained windows.

The plastic shopping bag of presents slumped on the coffee table.

He took them out and arranged them on the table, wincing at the unpleasant rustling of the plastic. He hadn't even had that many drinks last night, the noise nonetheless irritated him.

He could well imagine the size of Oswald's hangover. Maybe Oswald didn't even remember insisting he sleep over.

Stepped gingerly into the kitchen, partly so as not to make noise and partly to keep his own footsteps from turning the ache in his head into a dull roar. He didn't see a coffee maker on any of the counters, and he opened a few cupboards in the vague hope that there might be one stored away. He would happily settle for instant coffee.

"Hands up!" Oswald snapped behind him.

Jim's hands shot up, his shoulders clenching and his stomach flipping over. Be a hell of thing, Oswald shooting him at this point, though perhaps not unjustified. Karma was a bitch.

Behind him he could feel Oswald's confusion as he exhaled heavily. "Oh my God, Jim, I almost shot you."

Jim cautiously turned his head to look over his shoulder.

Oswald was setting a revolver down the counter. "What in the world are you doing here?" He winced and put a hand to his temple. "But tell me quietly," he whispered.

Damn. He didn't remember. Lowering his hands and turning all the way around, Jim said, "You said I could stay over." Actually Oswald had been insisting Jim lie down in bed with him, but fortunately passed out before he could press the issue.

Jim did not feel like he ought to share that particular detail.

He waved an awkward hand toward the living room. "I brought the presents over." His cheeks were heating, like he was a student hoping for a good grade from a teacher.

Oswald blinked, his brows furrowing as he attempted to recall and made an attempt to smooth his hair, which stuck out in numerous spikes. "You'll have to forgive me. I half expect Rod Serling to make an appearance."

Jim felt even more wrong-footed than before, his missteps multiplying before his eyes. He should have known. Maybe Oswald clinging to him last night and insisting he get in the car really had been entirely due to the drink, a drunken whim and no more than that.

"Who's Rod?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

Oswald squinted at him, frowning. "Rod Serling. Twilight Zone." He closed his eyes with a pained noise. "God, even my eyebrows hurt."

Jim felt a hot flush run across his cheeks and he ran a hand down his face. "Oh. Yeah. Right. My brain's not online yet. I'm..." Jesus Christ. Only one of the most well-known icons of pop culture.

He sighed. "Oswald, please tell me you have a coffee?" With some caffeine in him, he could maybe start thinking clearly.

Oswald was still looking at him as if he couldn't believe the evidence of his own eyes, but at the question he gave himself a kind of mental shake as he pulled whatever thoughts he was having onto the familiar tracks of courtesy and politeness. His hands plucked nervously at his wrinkled dress shirt and stopped at the purple tie hanging loosely around his neck. Some dignity reasserted itself in his manner as he drew himself up.

"No coffee maker, I'm afraid," he said. "But I'll send for some."

Oswald excused himself to the bathroom to take a shower, get changed into some new clothes that didn't stink like an ashtray (half the cops in Gotham smoked), puzzling over the interesting development that Jim had briefly been under the impression that Oswald was involved with someone called Rod.

As he gave his teeth a vigorous brushing, he struggled to remember if he'd said anything incriminating. Anything that might have hinted that, say, he was as hopelessly smitten with James Gordon as he was when he first set eyes on the detective, years ago.

He didn't think he'd said anything of an amorous nature. At least he hoped not. Reprimanding his employee for daring to lay hands on his dear friend Jim, and then falling into that dear friend's arms and clinging to him like a limpet, was, well, could easily be explained away as tipsiness. Couldn't it? Yes, tipsiness, an overenthusiastic condition brought on by too much alcohol.

He wished he could remember what had happened after they'd gotten back to the apartment, but try as he might, his mind was, most irritatingly, a grey blur on that point.

Had Jim taken off his shoes for him? The loafers were neatly lined up next to his closet, so he feared that might have been the case.

Oswald had awakened lying on top of his still made-up bed, but a blanket was draped over him, and he knew that he hadn't had the presence of mind last night to get it from the closet himself.

After rinsing his mouth, he heaved out a breath and straightened his shoulders. The hell with it. This changed nothing. Embarrassing himself in front of the good captain was old hat. He'd never been so rip-roaring drunk in front of Jim before, but Oswald would proceed as he'd always done, suck it up and carry on, exchange pleasantries, or unpleasantries as happened more often than not, and part ways.

Swallowing two Tylenol with water made him feel marginally better.

Friends. Just friends, he told himself.

Except Jim had apparently bought him some presents. Not a present. But presents, plural. It was a new, worrying element and he honestly had no idea what that was all about.

He debated putting on a full suit, then decided simply on slacks and a button-up shirt, then put on his favorite fluffy blue robe to complete the ensemble.

Hardly the well-polished look he normally sported, but this was his house and it was too damn early in the morning. He wanted to be at least somewhat comfortable while he smiled and exchanged courtesies and stuffed his feelings back in the box.

Emotional armor once again firmly in place, he went out to face Jim and get it over with.

Whatever 'it' was.

Jim was dunking a tea bag into a cup of hot water in a meditative sort of way. He glanced up as Oswald appeared in the doorway.

"You want some?" he asked.

At least the gruff voice was familiar, half ordering, half not caring if the person addressed accepted or not.

There was an undercurrent of something new in his voice, however, and with mild surprise Oswald realized Jim was nervous.

How novel.

Oswald said, "Offered so graciously, how can I refuse?"

Jim regarded Oswald's too-wide smile, and there was a certain relaxing of his facial muscles that indicated he was amused.

A tension Oswald hadn't even realized was there left his shoulders, and he chuckled as he went to the refrigerator. "How about some toast?"

They munched in silence, each nursing a hot beverage, Jim sipping the coffee from a nearby shop delivered by one of Oswald's people, and Oswald drinking Earl Grey.

They got into a mild debate over the merits of tea and coffee and breakfasts, awful mornings after nights of heavy drinking, ending up talking about cinnamon toast, of all things. Jim announcing that it was the first thing he'd learned to make for himself as a kid.

And, before Oswald knew it, nearly an hour flew by without him noticing. When he got up to have another life-saving cup of tea and to order Jim another coffee, his eye caught the empty plastic bag on the counter where Jim left it.

After the second cup of tea he almost felt normal again, and he turned his attention to the matter of the packages. There was still a low hum of nervousness in Jim's manner, though the man appeared reluctant to bring up the subject of the presents again. Oswald decided it was time to put the both of them out of their misery.

"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing toward the living room.

They stood for a few moments, staring at the gifts.

Oswald cleared his throat, and needlessly adjusted his robe. It was ridiculous to feel awkward, he was the host, it didn't have to be awkward.

And yet, until he had more information, he didn't know if Jim were making a peace offering, or going to ask a favor.

Probably a favor. Back to business as usual.

Something in him crumpled, leaving a little hollow place in his chest, though really, what else could he expect? He was still a little hungover, and his emotions were shaky, that was all.

"Please, have a seat," he said, gesturing.

Oswald settled onto the sofa, and immediately wished he'd chosen one of the chairs, because Jim sat down next to him.

This wasn't how it usually went.

"What's the occasion?" Oswald asked.

A faint blush crept over Jim's neck as he swallowed. "They're for Hannukah."

Oswald parsed this for a few moments. "Hannukah's over."

Jim raised his hand to, Oswald was sure, rub over the back of his neck which he was so often did when he was nervous, but then he made a conscious effort and stopped himself, clasping his hands on his lap instead. "Yeah, I know. Been so busy," he said on an exhale. "Um. They're...belated Hannukah presents."

Well, that was enough of an acceptable answer as far as Oswald was concerned. "I'm not that religious, as I'm sure you know," he felt compelled to point out. "And Hannukah really isn't a very big holiday."

Jim gave up the fight to rub his neck, grimacing for good measure. "Yeah, I know. I just thought...it'd be a little more appropriate. Instead of a Christmas present."

"There are only seven, though." Oswald was dangerously close to babbling. It wasn't like he cared if there were the requisite eight gifts or not, he was dangerously close to babbling. "And I didn't get you anything."

Jim said, "I thought it was time I started showing a little more appreciation for everything you've done for the city." He swallowed again, turning the coffee cup around in his hands, but he didn't drink from it. "And for me."

Jim looked right into his eyes when he said it, too, an expression so open and determined and soft, that Oswald felt heat flush up his cheeks, all the way up to his ears.

Do not leap at it like a desperate dog, Oswald told himself sternly. Yet he was unable to still the little flutter in his chest, felt himself lowering his shields, conscious of how he was opening to Jim like a sunflower turning to the sun.

Like a sunflower? Really? he chided himself.

Jim cleared his throat. "Yeah, the thing is..." Jim was digging into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and handed Oswald an evelope. "I've got the last present here."

Perhaps Oswald should have taken Jim's words as the cue to open the envelope last, but he was sufficiently unbalanced enough by the situation that his hands moved of their own accord while his brain quietly panicked

He held out an envelope which, when Oswald opened it, held two theater tickets to Rent. "I thought we could go together. If you wanted."

Oswald felt as if the ground were made of shifting sand, and was glad that he was sitting down. The next instant he realized he couldn't sit there a moment longer and stood up.

To leave, to flee to the bathroom, or the kitchen, or out of his apartment entirely, he had no idea. "I need to...I need..."

Jim stood up even more quickly, to lay one hand on his forearm. "Wait."

The half-formed excuse died on his tongue. Oswald could easily have broken the grip, Jim wasn't trying to restrain him, but at his touch, Oswald felt as if he made any sudden movements, he would break.

"What do you want?" he snapped, too frazzled to frame it any more politely. He hated it when Jim saw him like this, his worst moments, and Oswald didn't even have the excuse of getting dosed with fear gas.

Jim's gaze was soft. "I want to go to the play with you."

"Oh yeah? Why? Just a couple of old friends?"

"Whatever we are, Oswald, we're more than friends. I want..." Jim licked his lips. Oswald watched the movement of his tongue, the way his Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed. "I want us to be more than friends."

Oswald exhaled and swayed, and, not incidentally, put a hand on Jim's chest to keep his balance, his body irresistably drawn toward Jim's gravitational pull.

The feel of Jim's body heat under his palm at once ignited him and threatened to draw the remaining strength from his limbs. Oswald would have pulled away the next moment, except Jim put his own hand over Oswald's, pressing him there.

Slowly, deliberately, keeping his eyes locked on Oswald's, he lifted the hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles.

Time stood still, Oswald's entire existence reduced to Jim's soft gaze, and it was the most natural thing in the world, when Jim bent his head toward him, for Oswald to tilt his head in return, to let Jim press their lips together.

He had absolutely no idea what he was doing, afraid to move lest he destroy the fragile thing that was happening, and it was over too quickly, Jim pulling his head back too soon.

He didn't go far, however, and his main motive appeared to be to gaze into Oswald's eyes with a slightly punch-drunk expression, and his other hand was around the small of Oswald's back, a question in Jim's eye.

Oswald couldn't tell who moved first. Jim pulling him flush against his own body and Oswald's arms wrapping around his shoulders, Oswald's hand sliding up Jim's neck to sink into the gloriously soft hair on the back of his head, and their mouths slotted together again, it was simultaneous, an irresistable force of nature.

Admittedly, Jim was doing most of the work, Oswald was mainly trying to follow along and not embarrass himself too badly with his complete lack of experience and nonexistent technique, but Jim didn't seem to mind, and when his roving mouth moved to kiss along Oswald's cheek and the corner of his jaw, Oswald let out a completely unexpected groan and hugged him tighter.

A wave of dizziness and exhaustion assailed him and he groaned again. "Oh Jim, why does this have to happen when I'm so close to death?"

Huffing a brief, dry chuckle, Jim let Oswald sink onto the couch, sitting down beside him. "I don't think you're that far gone, sweetheart," he said, running a soothing hand up and down his back. "Just the hangover talking."

Oswald leaned into the touch, renedered unaccountably weaker by the pet name, and Jim pulled him closer so Oswald could lay his head on Jim's shoulder.

Oswald clutched at Jim's waist with one arm, the other arm getting squished between them. It seemed of small consequence.

"Let me take care of you," Jim murmured, and pressed a kiss into the top of his head.

Oswald went still, and would have pulled away but Jim's hold tightened gently around him and he lost any desire to flee, no matter how mortified. "You don't have to do that," he muttered. "Probably have better things to do."

"I've got the day off. I want to stay. Can I?"

Oswald swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. Another kiss in his hair, and Oswald could have cried at the softness. "Need to go lie down?" Jim murmured.

Oswald almost protested, but honestly, he really did still feel terrible.

Jim walked him to the bedroom, and asked if he might take a nap, too, and Oswald didn't hesitate to say yes. Jim lifted the covers to curl up behind Oswald's back. Not quite touching, but close enough for Oswald to feel the dip in the mattress.

Oswald's heart was pitter-pattering all over the place, tense with nervous excitement, breathing shallowly, thinking that maybe he wouldn't be able to sleep after all. Jim was here. With him. In his bed!

The rigors of the previous night had their way, however, and before he knew it he drifted off to sleep.

After a lengthy nap in which Oswald discovered he could sit up without wooziness, he went to get a drink of water. Going back to his room, he felt an unaccustomed shyness as he regarded the sleeping form of his guest.

Silly, really. It was his own room. Only he'd never had anyone in it before, certainly no one who made his heart race and butterflies start up in his stomach.

He studied Jim's face, relaxed in sleep, lashes lying on his cheeks, hair tousled from the pillow and falling over his forehead.

Oswald crept back in, not wanting to disturb him, but Jim stirred and opened his eyes.

"Come here," he whispered, reaching for him.

Oswald was powerless to offer any resistance, even if he'd wanted to. And he most definitely didn't want to, and he slipped under the covers, let himself be enveloped in Jim's arms.

Kissing him with little kisses, becoming gradually deeper, and lingering. Oswald took the opportunity to run his palms over Jim's arms, his shoulders, to thread his fingers into his hair, which was indeed as soft as it looked. until Jim rolled Oswald right over onto his back and laid the entire wonderful length of his body against him, one of Jim's thighs making it's way between Oswald's legs.

The slow grinding of hips, the heat and weight and press of Jim's body, luxurious and all-encompassing, so that Oswald unexpectedly groaned, and then clamped his lips together, but Jim kissed him, light and warm presses of his mouth, and whispered, "Don't stop. I liked it. I want to hear you."

"Well, I want these clothes off," Oswald said, panting.

Jim's eyes gleamed and he got up, sitting back on his heels to strip off his shirt, allowing Oswald to wriggle off the bed to get out of his own clothes.

His hands shook, he noted with dismay, and clumsy at undoing buttons. Getting naked had been his idea, he reminded himself sternly, far too late for modesty. Yet, his breath shortened and he could feel Jim's eyes on him.

In a surge of forced bravado that he certainly didn't feel, he yanked his trousers down, nearly falling over as he gracelessly pushed them off his feet.

The bed creaked as Jim got up.

"Hey," Jim murmured, sliding his hands around his waist to turn him.

Oswald raised his head though he thrummed with anxiety.

Jim's eyes were kind, and somehow all the more intense for it, and there was no mistaking the hungry look, but the fire was banked as Jim leaned his forehead against Oswald's.

Oswald managed to take a breath, then another, a little deeper than the last.

Jim's hands were soothing as they ran up and down his back and he tilted his head in to kiss him, warm soft lips moving over his own, opening slightly to seize Oswald's own.

Oswald's hands ran over Jim's shoulders as Jim kissed along his jaw and under his ear. Oswald shivered and closed his eyes, turning his head to expose his neck.

Jim took the invitation, opening his mouth to run his teeth lightly over Oswald's neck, before drawing back, but only slightly. "You wanna stop, babe?"

Oswald scoffed. "Hardly," he exclaimed. Any lingering hesitations had been most firmly squashed by the exquisite touch of teeth and tongue and lips. His heart damn near sang at the pet name, wide open and yearning for Jim with every fiber of his being.

"A little late for that, in any case," he added. Jim most definitely had an erection, and Oswald was half hard.

"Nah. Never too late," Jim said, shaking his head. "If I do anything you don't like, let me know."

"Excuse me, I believe you will be the first to know if you do something I don't like," Oswald said, affronted. Really, a bit of nervousness and Jim thought Oswald was ready to back out like some shrinking virgin? Not likely.

Still, Jim's consideration for his comfort warmed him clear through. In his occasional fantasies about the detective, he'd imagined Jim would be rough with him, impatient, taking what he wanted. He hadn't considered that Jim would be kind.

This new side of Jim left him weak-kneed and he blushed a little at the brusque tone with which he'd responded to Jim's simple injunction.

"I appreciate that, Jim," he said, more quietly. "But I really would like to lie down with you, now."

Jim smiled, his eyes crinkling, and that fire in his eyes was roaring to life, and Oswald's breath hitched. That smile was for him, that look. Jim was turned on by him, Oswald.

When Jim helped him slip off his underwear and eased him down onto the bed, Oswald was more than ready.

More kissing, as Jim settled on top of him, slow grinding of hips, until Oswald's brain was wholly focused on the touch of skin, Jim's weight blanketing him, the play of Jim's smooth muscles under his hands, of Jim's arms braced on either side of him, fingers tangled in the back of Oswald's hair, which lasted a glorious eternity.

Until Jim shifted to reach between them to wrap a hand around both of their lengths.

Oswald moaned, indecently loud, he thought, but he couldn't contain it, not when Jim was stroking him and stroking him and stroking him, pressing up over the tips and firmly stroking downward, precum leaking from both of them adding just enough to the slide of their cocks. Oswald's hips rose up to thrust into Jim's hand, and he was lost to the sensation, clinging helplessly to Jim's shoulders, until he came with a cry. Jim followed soon after, hovering over Oswald as he chased his own pleasure.

Jim settled on his side against Oswald, nestling his head into the crook of Oswald's neck and they lay there while their breathing steadied, arms wrapped around each other. Oswald never wanted to let go, the smoothness of Jim's skin a miracle under his fingers as he stroked his back.

Still, it was a fine mess they'd made between them, and after his heart returned to its usual rhythm, he managed to get up to find them some washcloths. Soon enough he was back in bed, gratified when Jim immediately gathered him close again in his arms and slung a leg over him. Jim was a cuddler, Oswald thought, grinning like a loon and joy blooming inside like a small sun.

The gifts were a mere formality after that, but Oswald appreciated the effort Jim put into them, and was pleased when Jim brought the presents to him, piling them up on the bed.

He unwrapped each one gleefully, taking care to exclaim appreciatively over each one and use as an excuse to plant kisses on Jim.

He shared with Jim the Rocher chocolates, dabbed a little of the expensive cologne on his neck, and casually draped the fine grey woolen scarf around his neck.

A pen set, a pair of leather gloves, silk socks, and the largest box, which held a matching tea cup and saucer packed in tissue.

"Thank you," Oswald said, fervently, leaning over to give Jim another lingering kiss. Throughout the unwrapping, Jim had avidly watched, his hair tousled and falling over his forehead, the boxers he'd thrown on as a concession to modesty when he went to fetch the gifts left the rest of him gloriously on display, and Jim's casual lean against the headboard, his occasional shift to get more comfortable or to lean in to accept Oswald's kisses did wonderful things to those muscles.

Oswald wanted to get his hands on him again, and in truth it was quite gratifying, the way Jim's eyes kept darting over Oswald. To know that Jim desired him.

He bit his lip to keep from giggling hysterically, almost overwhelmed by a rush of giddiness. "This is quite possibly the best belated Hannukah I've ever had."

He was rewarded with Jim's beautiful, shy smile.

God, he was too handsome for words. Oswald carefully placed each gift on the nightstand, and turned back, intending to kiss the stuffing out of him.

Jim was already reaching for him, sliding his arms around him, drawing him down onto the mattress.

Jim chuckled, a low, warm vibration going through Oswald's chest, a sensation that he was growing addicted to.

"What's so funny?" he asked, feeling a smile already stretching out his mouth, happy because Jim was happy.

"I was just thinking," Jim said, and ducked his head to give him a soft kiss on the lips. "That I'm the one who got the best present."

Oswald's reaction was instinctive, his hand shooting out to swat ineffectively at Jim's arm. "Shut up."

"No," Jim said, and kissed him again. "'S'true."

Oswald's face, he was certain, must have been red as a fire truck. "Well, I beg to differ," he stammered for a bit, before he recovered some equilibrium. "I got the best present."

Jim's smile turned sly. Oswald found out why when he shifted closer and pressed his hardening erection against Oswald's leg.

"The gift that keeps on giving," Jim said.

"Oh, God," Oswald giggled. "Puns. Be still, my heart."

"You like that? I got a million of 'em."

Oswald rolled his eyes. "Spare me. Seriously, please, spare me."

"I can think of a couple of ways to shut me up."

"Hm." Oswald rolled over onto his back, pulling Jim over on top of him, and he grinned at the brief startled look on Jim's face as he hooked one knee over Jim's hip. "I've got some ideas on that matter myself."


End file.
